A/N Whoo! GUYS. I finally reached fifty stories! I've actually been working on this story as a special fiftieth-fic celebration ages ago, before I watched the season 9 promo, so the idea's a bit old, but I manipulated it into sorta making sense irrespective of whether you've watched the promo or not. I just kinda went with my gut on this one.

Okay so, this is important. This fic is slightly different to the ones I normally write. Usually, even if I make the characters severely depressed, nothing graphic really happens but this time... well... let's just say that there are MAJOR suicide triggers, so if you're susceptible to that kinda stuff, please stay away. I know it was hard enough writing this fic out... I don't want any of you to suffer when you read it. Just, be careful, okay?

Anyway, dark as this is, I still had fun writing it, in a weird twisted masochistic way. :) ~Sammy

We'll skate on ice and we'll put on a show

It's funny, the things you can think of when your body's twisted around itself and practically screaming with every jolt of agony pulsating it's way through it.

You'd think that the pain would fog your mind, would distract you from your already scattered thoughts, but it doesn't.

The pain brings along a surprising clarity.

It was in this clarity, of pain and agony and sweet torture; that you first realized what had to be done.

You managed to hide the knife away under the pillow, and you waited until it was time.

You were curled up, sweaty and full of whimpers, in a bed, and it wasn't until a particularly agonizing lance of pain ran through your body that you fully comprehended where you were.

Dean's room. Dean's bed.

And if the pain hadn't already had a slow winding death grip on your heart, you think it might have twinged a little, with regret.

Dean was there, of course he was, and he ran a hand through your hair, whispering things that you were sure were utter nonsense but you didn't listen close enough to catch him out on it.

You couldn't hide the flinch when his hand touched your damp neck, but that was okay, because really, when weren't you flinching those days? He wouldn't suspect anything.

Just another bout of pain.

Just another shard of guilt piercing its way into your heart.

Just another moment of being a useless incapacitated Sam Winchester.

You would have tried, before to hide the tears that were streaming down your face, but there was no point anymore. Why try and hide the fact that you were weak? Not weakened, as Dean said you were, not a temporary thing. You were weak, you always had been, and now your weakness was all laid out for the world to see.

You usually cried even more when you thought about that.

Dean was always there, stuck there, waiting on you. Waiting with a wet cloth to wipe away the tears and perspiration and the tiny remnants of whatever soft food Dean had managed to whip up and you'd managed to choke down before nausea overwhelmed you; like you were five years old, needing to be cleaned up every few minutes.

He told you, every once in a while, what time it was, what day it was, what the weather was like outside; probably trying to keep your spirits up. You appreciated it, at the start, but soon you stopped listening. You didn't want to hear about how many hours, days, weeks, you'd been laid up in Dean's bed, doing nothing more but muffling screams and curses. You didn't want to hear about what it was like outside, you wanted to see it.

You think you might have said that out loud one day, because Dean's expression turned thoughtful and slightly pained, as it always did whenever you said things without thinking, and you found yourself wishing that you'd just accidentally bite your tongue off one day.

The next day, though, he came back after a few hours of disappearing with nothing more than a quick 'be back soon, Sammy' and he had a huge smile plastered across his face. You wondered what made him smile like that, but you didn't ask, because it shouldn't bother you that he was happy, he deserved it.

You found out the reason anyway, when he pulled a wheelchair along with him into the room, and his smile widened when he looked at you. 'We're going outside, Sammy.'

The pressure on your heart eased just the tiniest bit.

Outside consisted of nothing more than a rundown field in the middle of nowhere. It was close to the bunker, of course, because Dean had glared daggers at Kevin and a bewildered Castiel and told them to 'hold down the fort' until he came back later.

You were still hunched over in the wheelchair, but it wasn't as bad as you had thought it would be, because Dean had somehow managed to get his hands on one of the most comfortable wheelchairs you'd ever sat in, and the ghostly red-hot rod shoved up your spine didn't protest when he sat you down in it.

Dean was grinning widely the whole time he pushed your wheelchair down the field, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd seen him smile like that. You knew it had been even longer since you had smiled like that, but you didn't think about that, because you never had a reason to smile like Dean was.

He pulled out a blanket from somewhere, and you recognized it as that old warm soft one from your childhood that was always stashed away in the Impala. He laid it out on the ground, and he smiled at you again, like just you being there with him was making his day, which was so ridiculous you tossed away the thought as soon as it entered.

He helped you out of the wheelchair, and gently pushed you down on the blanket until you were lying down, and your face was flushed a bright red at the fact that you couldn't even lie down by yourself, but Dean helped you unflinchingly, which somehow made it worse.

Dean lay down next to you, and his hand brushed against yours, and it took everything you had not to jerk your hand away. He tipped his head sideways to look at you, and the smile still hadn't left his face. He gestured at the bright blue skies above you, his eyes never leaving your face. 'I know it's not the stars' he said 'but I figured we'd start small. Watch the clouds for a while.'

You both watched the fluffy tufts of cotton slowly move across the sky, and Dean joked about how that one cloud totally looked like Angelina Jolie and how you had no imagination, but you could feel his intense gaze burn into your face every few minutes when he looked back at you. You never looked away from the clouds.

He took you out more regularly after that, to that field, and you'd watch everything, from the clouds, to the sunrises and sunsets, and once he even relented and drove the Impala out to the middle of the field before helping you up onto the hood and watching the stars with you.

You'd forget, for a few hours, about the crippling pain that jolted through you, and you could pretend that everything was normal. That is, until Dean would help you back into the wheelchair and then put you back down in his bed. That's when the pain would come back with a vengeance, your every breath feeling like a punch to your sore ribs. Dean would rub your chest and murmur reassurances, but you didn't listen to him, not wanting to hear his hollow words.

He'd always wait until he thought you were asleep before falling to his knees and praying.

It would have surprised you, but you figured that he would want to have you get better so he could stop having to drag you around everywhere, so he could stop having to lie in a random field and watch the sky with his broken little brother, and go back to hunting.

So when he prayed every night, no matter how useless it was, you prayed right alongside him.

It was dark, the day you decided to stop. Dean hadn't taken you out to the field that day. He had come into your room, and you could feel his shadow falling over you, but you kept your breathing as even as you could, and curled up a bit tighter, not opening your eyes. He watched you for a while, before sighing and leaving. His footstep sounded slow and dragging, but you didn't pay attention to that.

You spent the whole day in bed, wishing you could just scream until the fire running through your veins would fade away. Dean kept coming back to check on you, more often than he usually did, and sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, or at least out of it, he'd run a hand through your hair and whisper a soft 'damnit Sammy' and you could feel the fire in your veins grow the smallest bit hotter.

When you awoke from the haze of one of the worse fits of agony, you could feel a hand moving up and down your back in a comforting gesture you hadn't felt since you were eleven. The soft touch blazed a path down your back, but the heat was comforting, it chased away the shards of ice creeping through your flesh.

It took a few moments of trying to breathe past the knives in your chest before you could hear the words being said. '-do this anymore, Cas. I can't keep pretending like everything's fine. I can't. It hurts too much.'

'He's your brother, Dean. You have to tell him. He may be in pain but he is still lucid. How long do you think it will take for him to find out?'

'He's never going to find out, I won't let him. Not if I can help it.

'Dean-'

'Besides, it won't matter soon. I said I'd do it, Cas, I promised.'

'But-'

'No. Just, no, Cas. Nothing you say's gonna change my mind. I have to do this.'

You couldn't stay still any longer, there seemed to be a sword pushed all the way down to its hilt in your hip, and there was a pressure somewhere in your chest that had nothing to do with the trials. You shifted, trying to ease your weight off the not-really-there sword, and Dean immediately fell silent, and his hand stilled on your back for a moment before resuming in its circular motions. If his hand was the slightest bit shaky, you didn't say anything.

'You okay, Sammy?'

You're not. You haven't been okay for longer than you could remember, but you nodded anyway, because at least that made Dean smile a bit. You shifted a bit more, trying to comfortable; and hissed as your skin brushed the sheets that felt too rough against the hypersensitive flesh. Dean's hand reached up to swipe your hair away from your face, but you could feel his fingertips lingering on your forehead, checking for a fever in the same way he always had.

You shifted a bit more, because moving didn't feel like stabbing yourself in the gut a hundred times over, but as soon as you started to move your arm, a flash of fire ran through you, and you were about three seconds from passing out right there. Suddenly there was more than one pair of hands on you and you might have whimpered a bit.

'It's okay Sammy, you're okay. It's just Cas.'

Dean's hands, the ones that were rough and warm and calloused, swept over your arms and your back and your chest and they were somehow everywhere at once, and you sank into the comfort even as you silently berated yourself for accepting it.

Castiel's hands, the ones that were soft and cool and unsure, fluttered over your neck and they brushed over your forehead in a gesture that was familiar from all these years of his fingers barely pushing against your skin as he healed you.

Except, this time, there was no dizzying whoosh of electricity pulsing just under your skin, no relief from the agony shredding through your muscles. This time there was just a cool touch that felt gentle and human.

This time, the hand was pulled back quickly, as if it was burned, and you supposed that, in a way, it was. You could hear Castiel's breath grow ragged, like your own, labored and tortured. His voice rasped deeper than you could ever remember it being.

'I can't- Dean, I can't heal him, I can't heal him. I can't heal him, Dean! I can't fix him. I can't. Can't. I can't- I thought I could. I forgot, for a second, thought I could, but I can't. I cannot heal your brother, Dean. I can't fix Sam. I'm sorry. I want to fix him, why can't I fix him I just wanted to-'

You watched as Castiel suddenly stood up from the chair he was sitting in, in one quick movement that would have been fluid if not for the trembling of his hands. You watched as Dean stared at the once-angel in open-mouthed shock. You watched as Cas turned around and practically ran from the room, his old trenchcoat flapping against his new jeans.

You could see the indecisiveness in Dean's eyes as his gaze flickered between you and the open door. A stab of liquid pain seared its way through your nerves, but you swallowed down the bile that rose, and rearranged your face into something that could possibly pass as peaceful. You twisted your lips into what you hoped was a smile but probably resembled a grimace. Still. You tried.

'Go.' You said, pushing weakly at the hand Dean had resting on your hip, 'He needs you.'

'Sammy…' he sighed, and you didn't want to look at the desolation is his expression, so you closed your eyes and shook your head.

'I'm fine Dean."

He scoffed a bit at that, but his hand wavered as he slowly eased it off your hip. 'Sure you are Sam.'

You shot him a look that was definitely a watered-down version your best glare, but still. 'Okay, so I'm not fine but…'

You paused for a moment, taking a long silent breath as you struggled to push down the newest wave of torture, and you shook your head again. 'He needs you, Dean. Just go. It's not like this can get much worse.'

That was a lie, it could get worse, it had gotten worse sometimes, and you both knew it, but he didn't call you out on it. He did however, squeeze your shoulder gently, almost reassuringly.

'Stay here Sammy. I'll be right back, okay?'

'Take your time. Take care of Cas.' You needed time, needed Dean to just walk out of that door and take forever to come back in. He hesitated, and you pushed his arm again, this time a little harder.

'I'm not going anywhere, Dean.'

Another lie, but Dean didn't know that, he couldn't know that, so you supposed that it was okay. It was just a small lie, anyway. You weren't going anywhere. Not really.

Dean's hand ran through your hair, one last time, and you leaned into the touch, just a bit, not enough to worry him. You didn't want to worry him, not anymore.

'Call me if you need me, okay Sammy?'

You nodded, and he smiled at you in a way you missed so damn much but you didn't say anything, because really, what could you say? I'm sorry I'm not strong enough.

His footsteps were soft as he walked out of the room, and you could feel the last of the fight drain out of you.

Cas hadn't gone far, just into the next room, what had once been your room; you could tell, because you could hear Dean's muted voice drifting through the open doors, carrying that soft gruff lilt he always adopted when he was trying to comfort someone. You could hear the achingly familiar sounds of someone dry heaving and sobbing at the same time, and you only knew that because you had been the source of that very same sound for so long now.

You listened to the soft 'I'm sorry Dean's and the 'it's okay, Cas, just breathe's until you couldn't stand it anymore.

The blade was heavy in your trembling fingers, but that was the fault of the trials (everything was the fault of the trials), because you knew that before, when you were stronger (never strong, always weak), the knife would have been feather-light in your hands.

You paused, considering. Not considering your decision, because you'd made this decision before you even knew that you had, and you knew that you didn't have a choice. Not considering exactly how to do it, because there had been moments of peace where you imagined it in perfect detail, the polished sheen of the blade glinting in the light of the lamp, the edge sliding under thin white flesh, tracing the faint blue outlined that strained against your skin, the absolutely exhilarating burn as tiny droplets of blood (blood was the problem, blood was always the problem, his blood was dirty, get it out, get it OUT) beaded and rolled off the twin cuts, staining everything a dark crimson.

No. You paused because, well, Dean was right, you were a bit of a drama queen; and you paused, if only to savor that last moment of silent anticipation.

The tip of the knife dug into your arm, breaking the skin and letting the tiniest drop of blood well up and stain the sharp edge. You closed your eyes and prayed to the angels that were now walking the earth, stranded, because you couldn't help them. You prayed to them, begged them for forgiveness.

Your hands shook, whether from fear, exhaustion, pain or excitement, you weren't sure (it couldn't be regret, never regret). Your chest ached from all the coughing and wheezing, your head pounded with a headache that felt like your own personal little mental jackhammer, and everything just hurt. You took a deep breath (one last gulp of wasted air) and your grip on the knife tightened.

And when you finally pressed down, finally slid that blade down on your skin, it was exactly how you imagined it would be. Blood rose to the surface, bright and dark and heavy, and there was a glorious fire racing its way up your arms. A tear slipped down your face, staining the bed (Dean's bed, he'll get mad about the stains) right along with the scarlet ink slowly inching its way across the sheets. And with every drop of blood that dripped away from you, you could breathe a little bit easier.

The last thing you heard was Dean calling your name.

A/N I know, I know, what the hell am I thinking, leaving a cliffhanger like that, right? Yeah... *sighs*I don't even know anymore... I'm aware of the fact that I started this off as a one-shot, but the idea I had was getting to be too damn long, so I just wrote it out so that I can leave it like this, but I also left a lot of openings for follow-up chapters. You guys will have to let me know whether you want me to write more for this, because I'm just not sure. Let me know in a review, you guys inspire me.

Also, just as a side note; nothing's ever bad enough to commit suicide. Nothing. Believe me, I know. There will always be things worth living for, you just have to look for them. And until you do, just, keep smiling. :) ~Sammy